


A Change in Tactics

by sadieb798



Series: The Start of Something [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Debauchery, Dubious Infidelity, F/M, Infidelity, John decides to pay a surprise visit, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Ridiculousness, Series 3, Sherlock Feels Guilty, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, agreements are reached, dance lessons, post sexytimes, though who could blame him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things she had had planned, John Watson deciding to pay a surprise visit to Baker Street was not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Mutual Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> I lost my direction with this one! School got crazy and too many things have gotten in the way, and so I've lost my way a bit. Hopefully I can get my groove back with this one, because this has been one of my absolute favorite fics to work on and it would be a shame if I couldn't get this story back on track somehow.  
> Here's hoping anyway.  
> Thanks for waiting; this one is going to be a chaptered bit to the series.  
> Also be advised, I took a liberty with this and made the date of John and Mary's wedding occur in early June, giving Sherlock and Mary a pinch more time in their mission to recruit John.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the things she had had planned, John Watson deciding to pay a surprise visit was not one of them.

  **A Mutual Agreement**

 

Okay, Mary was willing to concede that _maybe_ it had been a mistake to have slept with Sherlock so soon without John.

Of course it hadn’t been until after they’d already slept together and a week had gone by that Mary had began to second-guess herself about the whole thing.

She knew that she and Sherlock were on the same page; they had been since the night they had met, and that hadn’t changed. From that very first evening, she had understood perfectly well why Sherlock had had to enlist the assistance of his brother--the illusive Mycroft Holmes--in his planning and execution of his staged suicide, and keep John out of the loop. Admittedly John had every right to have been angry, but really he could be so dramatic--at least now she knew where he had learnt it from, or at the very least where he had picked it up.

But sitting there watching the two of them, it was so hard to believe how terrible they were at apologizing and forgiving. Sherlock was absolutely rubbish at trying to explain himself to John--and of course mornstache wasn’t helping much either, what with his whole not-bothering-to-move-past-his-bullheaded-stubbornness and see that the whole reason behind his friend’s fake suicide was simply to keep him save from an assassin’s bullet.

Lord.

Mary had to force herself not to wince at the two of them; it was _that_ hard to watch. Throughout the night, whenever he had begun to say something that sounded remotely like something acceptable as an explanation to John, she would nod in encouragement at Sherlock; if only to show him that he was heading somewhat in the right direction of getting back into John’s good graces. Or at the very least, making John a little less likely to punch him in the face (she had known the man for the whole of an hour by that point and could already tell that people skills and gauging people’s emotions were definitely _not_ his area of expertise).

And if John had made a big stink _then_ about Sherlock, his brother, Molly and the twenty-something members of The Homeless Network’s involvement in Sherlock’s faked suicide, and the secret that the detective was still alive from him--how would John react to the knowledge of her and Sherlock having sex behind his back?

Definitely not good at _all_.

Mary knew that since she was thinking all this _now_ , that it was only a matter of time before Sherlock did as well. Unless he didn’t. Then Mary would have to explain it to him, and wouldn’t _that_ be a fun conversation to have.

In that small hole-in-the-wall diner, watching those two idiots as they floundered with their emotions and fail miserably at trying to reconcile with each other, Mary thought that if they continued in this fashion, that she would have to become some sort of intermediary between them.

Subconsciously, she supposed, that feeling hadn’t gone away as the evening wore on, but instead had become a self-fulfilling prophecy when she left Sherlock on the kerb with the promise to bring John round. That commitment she made that night hadn’t changed even now, but had morphed as the months wore on. She thought that, if she had somehow managed to recruit Sherlock into her dream of a polyamory relationship, that it wouldn’t take long for John to accept the circumstances and happily join them without fight.

But it was important to her, above all else, that she not break the bond Sherlock and John shared or come between them. Whatever else happened, it was extremely imperative that John and Sherlock’s friendship and love for each other remain intact and strong; she would rather walk away and never return than to know that she was the cause of a broken partnership and any bad blood that would be between the duo.

Technically she didn’t start second-guessing herself and begin to think of reconstructing her plan until _after_ John had popped in at Baker Street unexpectedly.

Of all the things she had had planned, John Watson deciding to pay a surprise visit was _not_ one of them.

 

* * *

 

_A few hours prior..._

 

For a man who had claimed not to have a libido for God-knows-how-long, it was quite unfair how Sherlock’s voice could turn sinfully gravelly at the drop of a hat, and only had to give her _that look_ to make her knees start quaking like there was an earthquake beneath her feet, and cause her breath to catch in her throat.

But really who could blame her? He knew just how to use all of his assets to their best possible use.

Like that Byronic appearance. With that long, swanlike neck; those lips just asking to be kissed into oblivion; those mercilessly messy curls that just screamed “sex hair” that made anyone itch to touch; those rainbow-like eyes of his that changed color with every light and had the ability to cut through steel and see through any rouse used against him like _that_.

And don’t even get her started on that ass of his.

Appearances aside, there were also the inner attributes to consider. Like that beautiful massive brain of his, the fierce loyalty he showed to his closest companions and that big compassionate heart of his that he--for whatever absurd reason--believed he didn’t have.

With all this to consider, it wasn’t a surprise that it hadn’t taken much persuasion on Sherlock’s part before Mary wound up in his bed again, even though she had originally gone round Baker Street implicitly to do some serious wedding planning.

It was just after their second go that Mary was musing over the very astounding mysticism that Sherlock Holmes had a power; a power of not even having to say a _word_ and was still able pull her in. They both lay there, sated and panting on the damp sheets of his bed just as she was going over this idea.

“Oh my god,” Mary gasped, closing her eyes while she tried to catch her breath and lower her heart rate at the same time.

“Not quite,” Sherlock replied in an amused tone.

Mary cracked one eyelid open and glanced over at the detective beside her. He was staring right back at her, a smile tugging at his lips. She laughed and shoved him playfully. The smile won out, and he gave her a self-satisfied smirk.

She continued to stare at him for a bit. His curls were ruffled against the sheets, and Mary was fighting the very strong urge to muss them more; his lips were pink from the fervent kisses she’d pressed to his just minutes before, and there were dark marks along his neck and chest from the hickeys she had had the pleasure of imprinting on him.

It was the knowledge that _she_ had been the one to put him in that state that made her grin with pride and want to pat herself on the back for a job very much well done.

She sighed in satisfaction and stared up at the ceiling.

The text alert noise on her phone drew her attention from the ceiling. Frowning, Mary got out of bed, not bothering to put on any clothes to cover herself as she patted down the hall into the sitting room where she had left her purse and coat. She bent down and rummaged through her purse on the floor for her phone. As she walked back to the bedroom, she read the six texts she had missed from John.

“I have to get going,” she said, as she began to type out a reply. “I didn’t realize how late it’d gotten--” she looked up to see that Sherlock had his eyes closed and his fingers were steepled beneath his chin, in what Mary had come to know as his contemplative pose.

She settled her phone on Sherlock’s nightstand, and left him to his thoughts, as she silently began to pick her clothes up off the floor.

It wasn’t until Mary was sitting on the edge of his bed, clad in her pants and bra and was just pulling her trousers over her legs that Sherlock finally emerged from his thoughts.

“Mary,” he said, her name coming out as a gasp as his eyes flew open.

“Hm?”

“Have you and John already paid for dance lessons?”

Mary frowned. She turned around to see him staring intensely at her from where he lay on top of his pillows. “No...” She said slowly. “Why?”

He clambered out of the sheets and crawled over until he was kneeling beside her on the bed. Mary hid a tiny smile. Was that what had made him retreat into his thoughts? Her and John’s dance lessons? She turned to face him fully, curious to hear the idea that had had the power to have taken such a strong hold over him.

“The first dance between the newlyweds is one of those traditions, isn’t it?” He asked; she nodded in response.

“In my research,” Sherlock continued, “I learnt that traditionally the first dance between a married couple is a waltz, and--as I’m sure you’re aware--John cannot waltz to save his life.”

Mary frowned slightly, but didn’t bother to deny the truth in his statement and waited for him to continue.

“I, however, am an _excellent_ dancer,” Sherlock said with no small amount of smugness.

“Oh come on,” Mary huffed, laughing in disbelief. “Seriously? Where did _you_ learn to dance?”

“I once took on a case that involved the murder of the _prima ballerina_ in the Russian ballet. The case was more complex that I had originally anticipated, and there was no choice but for me to go undercover--”

Mary sighed. “ _Sherlock_ ,” she warned, she could tell he was lying.

“Okay, I took lessons as a child,” he admitted hurriedly, shot down by the tone in her voice and at having been caught. “At the time I thought it would be boring, but found over the course of the lessons that it was... _fun_.” He gave a disgusted expression at the word, and flushed in slight embarrassment at his admission. 

Mary couldn’t help but smile fondly and laugh at the ridiculous man.

“Oh _you_ ,” She cooed, giving his cheek a playful pinch and smiled at the withering look he directed at her. “I’m sure you were the _best_ danseur in that little ballet class.”

“Not a class, _studio_ ,” he corrected, frowning at her teasing and pulling away from her pinching fingers. “Also it was not _little._ But as I said, I found it enjoyable, so I applied myself and became an expert dancer. I don’t dance as much as I used to, but I still remember it all.” His eyes flicked to her face, watching for a reaction.

It didn’t take long at all before she understood where it was he was going with this. If she had to guess, it probably only took the whole of six seconds before a giant light bulb went off in her head.

“So you’re suggesting,” she started, smiling conspiratorially at her companion, who stared at her with eyes that gleamed in excitement. “That instead of spending hundreds of pounds on a dance instructor, and practicing in a posh studio--John and I should just come _here_ for our lessons?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock said smiling, clearly pleased with her usual cleverness and swiftness at being able to catch on, even at his seemingly most vaguest and sketchiest.

“What better place?” he asked. “The atmosphere and the surroundings are familiar, with no strangers to oggle or judge--”

“Except you,” Mary teased, giving him a smile. He frowned.

“Well _yes_ ,” he said. The _obvious_ at the end left unsaid. “How else do you expect John to get better?”

Mary giggled at that. “I’ll run it by him,” she said, standing up from her seat and pulling her dress over her head.

It was at that precise moment that the door to the street slammed shut.

They both froze. Neither daring to move or breathe.

Mary’s heart plummeted. Had Mrs. Hudson come home early? Did she know? 

They had made sure that Mrs. Hudson would be out each time Mary called before they ever started having sex. When sex was finally added into the equation, even at their most passionate, they were careful to keep quiet so as not to disturb her when she was in. Though Mary adored Sherlock's landlady more than life itself, she knew the very last thing they needed were any rumors to circle around about what they were up to, and fly off specifically into John’s general direction.

“Sherlock?” John’s familiar voice called up the stairs. The steps to the stairs creaked as John took his time climbing up the seventeen steps to the flat.

Mary’s stomach dropped. This was so much worse than she thought.

Suddenly Sherlock flew at Mary, grabbing her hand and dragging her away from the bed. He then pulled her toward the wardrobe in the corner of the room, wrenching the door open and all but flung her inside.

“Sherlock,” she began to say from inside the wardrobe.

“Stay here,” he said quickly, glancing away from her to check that the door to the bedroom was shut; it was.

“He’s going to find out anyway,” she said, sighing with resignation. She started to mentally prepare for whatever came next, and had begun to emotionally build up defenses for when the insults came--and they _would_ come. She was all but sure of it.

Sherlock was silent. His silence was only a moment, but that had somehow managed to feel like long, tense minutes of waiting.

“Not like this,” he said quietly, almost to himself. He shook himself before he turned to her. His eyes met hers with a flare of determination. “ _Never_ like this,” he amended.

Mary opened her mouth to reply, but before she could Sherlock pressed a finger to her lips. “Not another word,” he commanded. “Wait until I tell you it’s safe.” Then, without waiting for her response, he shut the wardrobe door in her face.

 

* * *

  

From the inside of the wardrobe, she heard Sherlock’s bedroom door open and close, and his and John’s voices as they greeted each other muffled by the shut wardrobe.

Mary stared at the dark inside of the cupboard for the whole of two minutes. She waited an additional two minutes before she pushed the door open. _Bugger that,_ she thought as she stepped out of the wardrobe. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror in passing, making sure she looked somewhat presentable. She went to the door of Sherlock’s room, straightening her dress as she went.

She took a deep breath, steadying her heart and her nerves, before wrenching the door open and marching purposefully out of the bedroom.

John and Sherlock were standing in the kitchen, the detective looking quite perfectly put-together, having managed to somehow throw on a shirt, button it properly, tuck it into his trousers before throwing on a robe in what must have been seconds before going out to greet John, since he had been as naked as the day he was born the last time Mary saw him. He hadn’t put on any socks though, Mary noted absently. Then again, neither had she.

John, for his part, wore one of his wooliest jumpers, in fact one of Mary’s favourites--and if the look on Sherlock’s face before he spotted her was any indication, it was now one of his favourites as well--his dark coat, and his street shoes.

John frowned in confusion at her entry, and Sherlock had turned his back on his friend to fix her with a blank canvas of a look. Mary found that Sherlock wore that particular expression whenever something so very unexpected, something completely out of left field happened that it left him in a state of brief panic. That was the look to indicate the brief state of panic. Sherlock managed to somehow pull himself together, and the look was gone. The only remnants of any panic he’d had were in his iridescent eyes.

Mary rolled her eyes.

“Oh for goodness’ sake!” She cried, stepping purposefully into the kitchen with them.

“Hello?” John said questioningly, raising an eyebrow.

“Sherlock stop whatever it was you were telling him,” Mary said, turning to the detective, who continued to stare at her. _Just go with it, just go with it,_ she thought desperately, keeping herself calm even as the panic swirled around in her head and threatened to spill over.

“Actually he hadn’t said anything,” John cut in, adjusting his stance so that his hand was resting on the kitchen table. “What on earth are you doing here?” he asked, continuing to stare at her with a perplexed expression.

“I was going to tell you tonight when I got home,” she said, watching as John’s frown lines deepened and his eyebrow somehow managed to climb higher up his head, meeting his hairline. A look of concern and confusion stole across his features.

“Sherlock and I..” She sighed in agitation and shook her head, taking her time before she looked to the detective, as though to silently confer with him.

He stared back at her, just as taken in by her performance as John was and waiting to see she would do next. She hoped he’d follow her lead.

_Do you trust me?_ Her eyes asked, as she kept them fastened on his face, waiting to see if he somehow managed to read her thoughts and would give her an indication that he had.

He blinked, and shifted his eyes away to the beakers and the other science equipment on the kitchen table. Still keeping his eyes on the experiment, he gave a slight nod. A sign that she’d been waiting for.

Wasting no time, she whipped her head back to her fiancé, whose anticipation she could feel rolling off him in waves. She met his gaze unblinkingly, and spoke in one short breath.

“..Have been dancing,” she finished. “Sherlock’s offered to give us dance lessons, I accepted and we’ve been dancing.”

John stared at her in disbelief. Silence stretched over the flat for an embarrassingly long amount of time. She continued to stare into his blue eyes, watching for suspicion, or anything to flint in his expression, before he finally blinked and laughed.

“Oh my god!” John said, continuing to laugh. Relief flooded Mary’s insides at the sound. He shook his head good-naturedly, and placed his hands on her forearms.

“I thought someone had an incurable disease or something!” He laughed again,  breathless with relief.

Mary smiled briefly, relaxing slightly, and didn’t have to look at Sherlock to see the same smile had been on his face too.

It wasn’t necessarily a lie, but tell that to the guilt clenching her intestines.

“Hang on,” John said, taking his hands away from Mary’s arms. She missed the contact already. “Why are you taking dance lessons?”

“Oh come now John,” Sherlock said. Mary shifted her eyes to look towards him; he was looking at John with an expression of immense disbelief. “Surely _you_ of all people haven’t somehow managed to forget the ridiculously famous wedding tradition of the newlywed’s first dance amongst a sea of other equally ridiculous wedding traditions?”

John frowned. “No, Sherlock, I’m not saying that,” he returned irritably, as he met Sherlock’s gaze. “I’m wondering why _Mary’s_ agreed to dance lessons.” He looked back at her. “You’re a wonderful dancer, you don’t need them.”

Affection bubbled up in her chest and filled her completely like helium to a balloon. She smiled at him lovingly, warmth flooding her face.

“Ah. I see.”

She turned back to see Sherlock’s head was tilted to the side and his eyes were fixed on her.

“You took dance lessons when you were ten,” he said, his eyes not meeting hers. “And evidently you enjoyed it since you go out dancing every month. Oh that would explain how you knew about John’s dancing. I didn’t take you both for the clubbing type.”

“I do not want to know _how_ you knew that,” Mary said, ignoring his petulant pout; he looked as though she’d taken away his prized treat. “And we don’t go ‘clubbing’.” She turned back to John. “I’m not a good traditional dancer anyway, so I wanted to relearn the waltz,” she explained.

“Okay,” John said slowly. 

“And I think you should too,” she finished.

John frowned again. “Why do _I_ have to learn to dance? There’s nothing wrong with my dancing--”

Sherlock and her snorted in such unexpected unison that it took John completely by surprise.

“What?” he asked, looking from one to the other for an answer.

“Let’s just say that nobody does the pop-and-lock quite like you do, dear,” Mary teased.

“You’re _still_ doing that?” Sherlock asked, frowning slightly. “Come _on_ John! That is _so_ nineteen ninety-five.” Mary repressed the very strong urge to snort.

John rolled his eyes. “Okay _fine_. So my dancing skills leave much to be desired. And alright, yeah, so I don’t know how to foxtrout--”

“Fox _trot_ ,” Sherlock corrected, his expression deadpanned.

“Yeah whatever,” John said, waving that away.

“Oh come on, John,” Mary said, reaching out to touch his forearms before giving them an affectionate squeeze and giving him her sweetest smile. “It’s just _one_ dance. And it’s our _wedding!_ And it would be so much fun. Please, John.”

She batted her eyelashes just for good measure.

John snorted in amusement at her expression, smirking at her. Mary could tell she’d already gotten him on board with the whole thing before he even said a word in response.

“Yeah all right,” he sighed. Mary gave him a beaming smile and a peck on the cheek.

“Tonight?” She coaxed, ghosting a kiss over his ear that sent a shiver down his spine. She smiled in satisfaction.

“Yeah, okay,” John said, clearing his throat. He placed his hands on her hips and gave them a squeeze as he evaluated her. “Have you eaten? No? Sherlock don’t bother pretending--I _know_ you haven’t eaten.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

“Right. I’ll get takeaway,” John started, stepping away from them both and reaching for the handle of the door leading out to the stairs. “Then we’ll see about those lessons.” He stepped out onto the stairs’ landing.

“Pick up a bottle of wine, will you?” Mary called down the stairs to him.

“Righto,” he replied, his voice drifting upward before the door to the street slammed shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

Mary waited until she had shut the door to the stairs before stepping back over into Sherlock’s personal space. She giggled in relief, taking the sides of his face in her hands, feeling as the hair over his ears curled around her fingers and kissed his mouth.

“That was _brilliant_ ,” she breathed, her breath ghosting over his lips. She sighed, her fingers tightening slightly over his hair. “Thank you,” she whispered, smiling again.

She opened her eyes to look up at Sherlock to find that his gaze was not meeting hers. His eyes were fixed down at the floor, tension draped over his shoulders like that ludicrous robe he insisted on wearing. He did not share her smile of relief and amusement. Immediately the smile fell from her face.

“Sherlock?”

He took a deep breath before closing his eyes. After a moment or two, he opened them again and finally met her gaze.

“I think we should stop now,” he said.

Mary stared at him. She felt as though a trapdoor had opened up underneath her and she was dropped down the shaft. She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to scream until her voice was hoarse and it hurt to speak. She wanted to punch; to hit--to lash out. She wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and never get up again. She felt like her whole world was spinning out of control and she didn’t have a grasp on it anymore. She didn’t know which analogy fitted her more or even which thing she wanted to _do_ more, but she knew that it wouldn’t help matters if she got upset. She had to calm down.

Instead she asked “what” in the best way she could whilst trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. She opened her eyes to look at his face.

“This has gotten ridiculous and it was a stupid experiment to try in the first place,” Sherlock said, cooly and rationally. “It would be in everybody’s best interest if we stopped and forgot that any of this had happened and went on with our lives.”

Mary stared at him, her hands still clasping his face. Something flitted across his face for a brief moment, but was too quick for her to give a name.

“You want this so much, but I can’t give it to you--” he started again.

“Forget what I want,” Mary cut in, briefly tightening the hold she had on him to draw his attention back to her. “Sherlock.” She said, her tone slightly sharp to warrant his attention when her touch hadn’t worked. “Forget about me for a moment, all right? Forget about everything that is in my best interest, or in John’s. What do _you_ want?”

Sherlock shook his head, his curls slapping him in the face. His fists were clenched at his sides so tightly, his knuckles were turning white. He was shaking with the effort to not show any emotion. Ironically enough, some seeped out anyway. He finally waved Mary’s hands away from his face before raising his own in exasperation, and yelled at the ceiling.

“I don’t _know!”_ He cried in agitation. “I can’t _think_ with all these emotions clouding my judgement!” He waved his hands around his head to emphasize his point, before squeezing his eyes shut tightly and placing the tips of his fingers against his temples. “It’s _annoying!_ How do normal people function like this?!” He huffed out a breath.

Mary stared at him.

“Welcome to the human race, Sherlock,” She said, taking one of his hands away from his head and gently holding it in hers. She rubbed his hand soothingly as she continued to address him, though he still wouldn’t look at her. “Where we as a people have to deal with stupid emotional shit every day _and_ also be expected to make choices that make us rational human beings that separate us from the apes. 

“You can’t favour one side of yourself over the other, and shut the other one away forever. You have to use both sides in order to play to your best interests. Now let’s try to look at this logically, okay? What do you want?”

She waited a beat. The lines of Sherlock’s face smoothed and he exhaled a long breath before he spoke again. “I want what you and John have,” he said, his eyes still closed as he dropped his other hand to his side. “I want to touch him whenever I want and I want him to be able to smile at me like that--and have him actually be _aware_ that he does,” he added before Mary could point out to him that John already smiles at him like that.

Mary frowned thoughtfully.

“I want what you two have too,” she admitted. His eyes fluttered open before he stared at her in confusion. “You’ve known him longer than me; spent more time with him than I have. Do you know how jealous that makes me? I feel like I got the scraps that you left behind when I got him.”

“He was a completely different person when I met him,” Sherlock whispered, his head dipped so that his chin was touching his chest.

She nodded. “Yes I know. He was a different person when I met him too.” She closed her eyes as a wave of absolute sadness overwhelmed her. “He was _devastated_ when you died, Sherlock. I was only working at the clinic a few short weeks when I’d met him, but even I could tell that whatever he lost had hit him _hard_. I don’t think he was completely the same even when we started officially dating.”

They were silent a moment that stretched out to fill the whole of the flat, cramming into every nook and cranny, the splits in the floorboards, and the cracks in the kitchen’s tiles.

“I don’t want to hurt him again,” Sherlock whispered, his voice soft and childlike in the quiet.

And there it was at last.

Mary closed her eyes and nodded in understanding. “I know,” she replied softly. “I don’t either.”

They stood there like that, letting the silence settle all around them as the minutes ticked by without their notice.

Sherlock had drifted closer to her throughout their shared silence and had his forehead resting on her shoulder. Mary placed her hands on the center of his back, absentmindedly rubbing soothing circles as she stared over his shoulder at the shelf above the sink.

“I’ve always wanted a relationship like this,” she confessed, whispering it in his ear. “The kind where three people can be together and love each other. I’ve tried to get my past boyfriends to be up for it but it never took. Do you know why?” He shook his head, his curls scrapping over her shoulder.

“It’s because the bastards never cared about each other,” she said, expelling a humorless laugh. “But it’s different with you and John--you two actually care about each other. My god, you both would not hesitate to kill if the other were in danger and wouldn’t lose any sleep over doing so. You both value each other’s well-being and happiness above your own. That’s what makes this time around so different from the others, Sherlock, and how I _know_ this one will work.”

Neither spoke for a time, and she didn’t want to break the silence. So she let what she’d just said mull over in his head.

Her heart clenched painfully and tears sprang up in her eyes. Although she felt like a tit for asking, she had to be _sure_ \--she had to be _absolutely certain_. And she knew it would be absolutely selfish of her if she didn’t check.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice, should it break with it. “If you want to stop, Sherlock, I can. I can stop right now, and we can go back to how we were before--”

“No,” he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder as he shook his head. He startled her by wrapping his arms around her middle and squeezing tightly. “No. I don’t.”

He was silent as he thought; Mary could practically feel the gears turning in that massive brain of his.

“Although the sex was enjoyable,” Sherlock began tentatively, “but if it’s all the same to you, I don’t want to have sex with you without John.”

“I agree,” Mary said as she smiled fondly, nodding in agreement.

“Then we’ll continue once we’ve managed to convince him?” he asked, his voice hopeful. Mary smiled wider and nodded again.

“Yes.”

He squeezed her tighter.

They were silent again. It seemed to be something they were going to be doing quite a lot.

“I wonder what John would think of this,” she mused to herself, as they continued to stand there and hold each other; neither showing any signs of letting the other go any time soon.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows,” he replied.

“Well you _have_ known him longer than me,” Mary pointed out.

“And I _still_ don’t understand him,” he said with an almighty sigh of frustration.

Mary was silent, the easy admission completely mystifying her. It was as though the concept of understanding John Watson was one of the great mysteries of life that would never be solved, and that left the detective--who relied on mysteries such as these like oxygen to breathe--completely breathless and filled with such an aching _longing_ to take the man apart and study him until he was completely satisfied by his findings.

Mary could understand the feeling.

“I know,” she said, closing her eyes and letting her hands continue to rub circles along his spine as they stood comfortably still in the kitchen for a few minutes longer.


	2. Candlelight and Takeaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Romance!” she exclaimed with a wide grin and a gesture of her hands. “Taking him to dinner! Candlelight! An open bottle of wine! Dancing! The works!” she clarified when Sherlock continued to stare at her like she'd grown a second head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I'm going to try to be a tiny bit responsible with this bit in the story, so I'll be updating this chaptered part of our story hopefully within a few days. I'm also trying to write this with some British terminology to make it more authentic, so if I made/make any mistakes, feel free to tell me so!  
> As always, comments and kudos do me a world of good, and I want to thank you all so much for taking the time to leave them and for making my day a little bit brighter for it. Thank you :)  
> Now on with the program!

 

**Candlelight and Takeaway**

 

“We’re going to have to romance him,” Mary said, halting in her pacing of the sitting room.

Sherlock stared blankly up at her from his spot on the sofa. 

“Dear God,” he said, blinking slowly out of his dazed state. “Now I know how John feels. I don’t follow you.” He sighed, disgruntled to admit it.

Mary smirked at his admission before she turned swiftly round on her heels to face him.

“Romance!” she exclaimed with a wide grin and a gesture of her hands. “Taking him to dinner! Candlelight! An open bottle of wine! Dancing! The works!” she clarified when Sherlock continued to stare at her like she'd grown a second head. He frowned deeply, a crease appearing between his brows.

“You may have to be more forthcoming in your explanation, Mary,” he replied sourly.

“Look,” Mary said with a patient sigh. She sat right down on the coffee table in front of him, and he automatically moved closer to the edge of his seat until he was leaning close enough to whisper. Mary smiled at the easy camaraderie and the joint joy to commit conspiracy. “John is a romantic,” she began patiently. 

“I _have_ read the blog,” Sherlock pointed out dryly, glaring at her through half-lidded eyes. “And I have taken a cursory glance into the emails he’s sent to his girlfriends and have seen his attempt at prose more than once. So _yes:_ I know of his romanticism.”

Mary frowned at him. She had to admit that John’s attempts at poetry left much to be desired, and were considered mediocre at best. But they were still adorable and she had saved each and every one of them in a folder she’d labeled under ‘Tax Notes’.

“But that’s not the whole of it,” she continued. “He’s done other things that are romantic. He’s brought me flowers, made me cups of tea and dinner, taken care of me while I was sick, and asked about my day and listened to my complaints. Little things but, in short, were gestures that meant he was putting my needs ahead of his own. So it only serves that in order to win John over, we need to _romance_ him into the arrangement.”

“How?” Sherlock asked with a hint of despair in his voice that she was sure the only people able to identify it on the planet were John and herself (perhaps even the enigmatic Mycroft Holmes, but she wasn’t sure as she’d never met Sherlock’s big brother--though she _did_ hear things so maybe). It was evident though that the great detective was completely out of his element and was probably feeling the effects of it.

Mary quirked her lips into a smirk. “That, my dear Holmes, largely depends on you.”

“Me?” He furrowed his eyebrows in further confusion. “Why?”

“Because I need to know if you know where you keep your candles.”

 

* * *

 

The last candle had been lit by the time the door to the sitting room opened, revealing John in the threshold; the stairwell’s light fixtures brightening his back, making him look like a shadow in the doorway with two bags of Chinese in one hand, and a Tesco bag in the other.

“What’s all this then?” He asked in amusement, his dark blue eyes glancing over the room curiously.

It had taken some wheedling, but Mary had managed to convince Sherlock that all the lamps had to be turned off, leaving the room lit only by candlelight and the fire in the crate. With their combined efforts, small glimmering candles were scattered across the flat: from the mantle over the fireplace with its crackling fire, to the shelves on the bookcases on either side, to the desk standing between the tall windows--all were illuminated by at least five candles. The strategic lighting had managed to paint the sitting room in warm golden yellows, and dark hues of red. Overall the room was given a warm and cosy ambiance that was deliciously seductive.

“Practice,” Sherlock said, easing away from his spot beside Mary as they surveyed their work and moving to the kitchen.

“Practice?” John echoed in confusion, turning to glance at Sherlock as he passed. 

“Candles will be much better for our first dance,” Mary responded with a smile as she took the takeaway bags from him. She stepped away towards the kitchen when John blocked her path.

“I hope you’re not planning on leaving _all_ these candles lit,” John said directing a pointed look at her, complete with a raise of his eyebrow.

“Don’t worry,” she said, giving him a teasing smile. She passed him and went to the table to unload the food, John following her into the cramped kitchen. “We have the fire department on standby.”

His lips turned down into a frown. “Hilarious.” Mary’s only response was to smile wider at him and press a firm kiss on his lips.

When she pulled away, her eyes glanced away from John briefly and caught sight of Sherlock, who stood behind John. He had a carefully blank expression on his face as he surveyed them from the side of his eyes. The look was entirely too blank for Mary's liking, and only by looking at his eyes could she see the pain beneath the mask.

The sight made Mary’s chest ache with sadness. To John the expression must have looked to be one masking distaste; because when he noticed Mary staring at Sherlock, he turned and, seeing his face, gave a rueful smile.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “I know how much you hate that.”

Sherlock frowned in response and John turned back to opening Chinese cartons and unloading food onto the three plates his friend had laid out.

Mary raised an eyebrow. “What does he hate?” she asked curiously, coming round to stand between the two. She traced Sherlock’s arm with her fingers in passing. He didn’t acknowledge the gesture.

“Sherlock has a thing about public displays of affection,” John replied, not taking his eyes away from his task.

“It’s not a ‘thing’ John,” Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You complain about it often enough, it _becomes_ a thing,” John replied easily, switching plates out and starting on another.

“Just because _I_ don’t find the display of people exchanging fluids romantic or appealing, does _not_ mean I have a ‘thing’ about it.” Sherlock retorted with a huff. 

“They’re just happy to be with each other,” John replied in a patient tone, which gave Mary the impression that they’d had this discussion many times before.

Sherlock scoffed in disgust and accompanied it with an eyeroll. John just chuckled and shook his head in amused exasperation.

“Oh I don’t know,” Mary spoke up thoughtfully, darting her green eyes to Sherlock’s kaleidoscopic ones. She lifted her right hand and rested it over John’s forearm then lightly caressed him with her fingers. John hummed softly in response as he filled the last plate with food. “There’s something about displays of affection that are just so...reassuring.”

She lifted her left hand to Sherlock’s face and brushed her fingertips softly along his angular cheek. His eyes widened microscopically. “Comforting,” she continued. 

She lifted her hand again, reached up and, without breaking eye contact with Sherlock, twirled an errant curl that had wandered to the center of his forehead around her forefinger. He lifted his eyebrow in question. “Sexy,” she whispered.

Sherlock’s pupils dilated slightly and a blush spread over his cheeks at that. He then flicked his eyes past Mary’s shoulder, and resettled them on her; giving her a significant look. Mary turned her head back to John. Her hand had settled on his arm, but had stopped in its stroking. In fact it had stopped mid-stroke and was all but _hanging_ in the air. 

As for John, he was staring at them; his eyebrow quirked, head slightly tilted to the side and his lips taking on that pinched expression he got when he was slightly confused about something and trying to figure it out. It was one of Mary’s favorite of John’s facial expressions.

She quirked her lips into a playful smirk and shrugged. “But that’s just me,” she said, turning back to Sherlock before releasing the curl and watching as it sprung back into place as though she hadn’t just been playing with it seconds before.

Sherlock frowned but the blush remained as his eyes locked on hers and took on a spark. He nodded his head minutely in silent understanding. She smiled.

“Here,” John said, breaking into Mary and Sherlock's silent arrangement. He held out a plate to Sherlock that was loaded with chow mein, rice and broccoli.

Sherlock frowned down at the food before staring back up at John with an eyebrow raised. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Your food,” John replied. “Don’t think I hadn’t noticed the stone you practically lost.”

“As always, you exaggerate,” he said. “It hasn’t _been_ a stone.” He muttered quietly, almost as an afterthought.

“Yeah well you’ve been looking a bit thin,” John responded, his grip tightening slightly on the plate.

“I am _lean_ , not thin. Learn the difference.”

“You’ll be thin soon enough if you keep going on the way you have.”

“I am _fine_ ,” Sherlock asserted with a grit of his teeth.

“You can’t live off of the odd biscuit and tea Sherlock--you have to eat _real_ food,” John argued, meeting Sherlock’s narrowed eyes and giving him a look that Mary privately called ‘The Captain’.

Sherlock glowered at him, and John glowered back. Mary looked between the two of them before rolling her eyes.

“Boys boys _boys,”_ she said, putting her own plate down. She put her hands on her hips and met John’s look with a look of her own. “Stop nagging, love. You’re his friend, not his mother.”

“I’m also his _doctor_ ,” asserted John incredulously.

“And just like everyone else on the planet, he has the right to ignore what you have to say,” Mary replied easily. Then she turned and lifted an eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction. “And you _have_ been looking a little malnourished. Eat.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Sherlock giving her an unreadable look; his eyes sweeping over her. When it became evident that Mary was not letting up, he huffed in response and took the proffered plate of food.

“Fine,” he growled, his fingers lightly grazing John’s in the exchange. Mary smiled, pleased that the detective lived up to his job title and had caught on to what she had been saying.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little meat on your bones,” she said taking her plate up again with one hand and rounding behind Sherlock. As she walked around him, her right hand touched the small of his back and trailed along the narrow curve of his waist before giving him a light pinch in his side. He practically jumped at the contact. John blinked in surprise and stifled a snort.

“Gives a girl something to hold on to,” she teased, looking back up at Sherlock from over her shoulder. She turned back just in time to see him glare at her. “Or a bloke,” She winked. 

Sherlock flushed darker and practically sputtered in embarrassment. Mary took a moment to savour the look before taking up one of the packets of chopsticks John had left out on the table.

“Dinner is getting cold, dear,” she called from the sitting room. “Let’s have some of that wine you brought too.”

Lord knows she’ll be needing it.


	3. Terribly Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They continued on in this fashion for a good twenty minutes more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me trying to be responsible. I was originally going to get right down to it, but then Sherlock decided to rush dinner along by helping John and Mary and of course more introductory touching became paramount to the actual lesson.

  **Terribly Domestic**

 

Sherlock wolfed down his food in practically no time at all. While Mary and John enjoyed their meals at the standard pace that one would expect from human beings that were in no hurry to finish eating, they discussed their upcoming nuptials. Having since finished his plate, Sherlock was not able to sit still at all; vying instead to move around the flat in a fit of boredom and impatience. 

Twice he stood up and looked out both windows, before deciding--after twelve seconds at each one--that there was absolutely nothing of interest to look at down on the street. Then he decided that the dust needed to be catalogued, and that it would be a good time to get down to it--this lasted a full minute before he scoffed in disgust. Then he began pacing back and forth in front of the couch before eventually sitting back down on the sofa, and jiggling his leg incessantly. He would alternate his seated positions: one minute, his chin would be resting in the palm of his hand on top of his knee, then the next his face would be flat on the sofa, studying the seams of a pillow, and then his head would be resting on one of the arms, hands folded on his chest, and eyes staring upwards in deep contemplation at the cracks in the ceiling. He decided that his next way to pass the time was to play with his phone by either typing furiously away at it, or throwing it up into the air and catching it in his hands. All without stopping his restless squirming.

Mary swore if he continued to jiggle his leg, she was going to cut off his thumbs.

“Sherlock I swear if you don’t stop jiggling, I’m going to cut off your thumbs,” she threatened from her spot in Sherlock’s chair. He frowned deeply back at her, phone poised in hand as he slid lower down the couch; his feet planted squarely on the hardwood floor and his long legs bent.

“ _When_ are we going to start already?” Sherlock whined, sprawling his legs out.

“Just calm down,” John said between bites of his lo mein before swallowing. “It’s not like there’s a time table or anything.”

He ducked his head down for another bite of food, and as he did so, Sherlock and Mary locked eyes on each other over his bent head. Words were unnecessary: they understood each other perfectly. She sighed and shook her head before eating a shrimp off her plate.

“If you’re still hungry, Sherlock, get more food,” John said, lifting his head back up to survey his friend. Sherlock huffed in response and stared offendedly at John’s plate of food, as though it were its fault for the delay of the lesson.

John only sighed and turned his attention back to his food, his chopsticks raised to grab up a piece of meat. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in interest. Slowly and silently, he raised himself up, and stood with his chopsticks poised in hand. Then, in two big strides, he was in front of John and snatched the meat out from between John’s chopsticks with his own.

“Hey!” John cried in shock as the man beside him ate his food. Sherlock chewed with relish.

“Mm!” he said, smiling widely at John’s expression. “That _is_ good!”

John frowned and pointedly ignored Sherlock in favour of getting another piece of meat. This however did not detour Sherlock. He reached out, plucked the meat out from John’s chopsticks again, and popped it into his mouth.

“Stop that!” John yelled, waving the other man’s chopsticks away from his food with his right hand, while curling his left arm protectively around his food.

“ _You_ said if I was hungry to get more,” Sherlock pointed out, trying to find an opening between John’s arms with his chopsticks raised.

“I meant to just get more from the _kitchen!_ ” John grit out as he blocked the man’s outstretched chopsticks.

“But that’s so boring!” Sherlock whined before finding an opening at last and slithering his snake-like arm through the gap in John’s defense, and caught some noodles up off his plate.

“Oi!” John exclaimed again as his friend slurped up the noodles. In retaliation, John began to quickly gobble down the food with his left hand and blocking Sherlock with his right arm.

It became a contest between them: Sherlock stealing John’s food off his plate, and John scarfing down as much as he could in order to stop Sherlock’s attempts. Mary’s own plate sat forgotten as she watched them, not quite believing what she was seeing.

It was unclear who had the last bite, but before they knew it, both chopsticks met the plate with a clatter. It was then that Sherlock and John looked down and noticed that they had completely cleaned the plate. They stared down at it for a moment, before looking up at each other’s faces again. During the course of their escapade, they had gotten closer over the last few minutes; their faces only inches apart. Had he wanted to, Sherlock could have easily leaned forward an inch or two to give John a kiss on the mouth. Much to Mary's disappointment, instead of doing that, they both frowned at each other.

Then their gaze shifted toward Mary.

She blinked at the sudden attention before realizing that their eyes were not focused on her. Puzzled, she followed the direction their eyes were drawn to. That was when she noticed that her own plate was still full of food.

“Oh no,” she cried as both men stood up, chopsticks raised. She waved them away, curling an arm over her food protectively. “No no no! Just go to the kitchen! Go to the--!”

Immediately they advanced on her plate and before she knew it, Mary was engaged in a battle to defend her plate against the two hungry men.

There was flying food, lightning-fast reflexes, loud slurping and chewing noises, some curses and shouts, raised elbows, nudging and knocking of hands and wrists, and at least one or two elbows to the side and a few pinches before the plate was wiped clean of food.

Mary huffed and glared daggers at the two idiots. John was licking the lemon chicken sauce that had traveled down his arm during the struggle, and Sherlock was sitting on the floor, leaning back on his heels with a giant smirk of satisfaction on his face.

“Right,” Mary said after a moment. She rose with her empty plate in hand. “Since you both made the mess, _you’re_ the ones who’re cleaning it up.”

In a few minutes the food was cleared off the floor, and the three of them were gathered in the kitchen: John at the sink doing the washing, and Sherlock standing beside him drying and putting away the dishes while Mary tried to pack all the takeaway boxes into the fridge without touching any of the suspicious-looking packages that may or may not have once been another human being. When she was done, Mary sat back at the kitchen table with a glass of wine in hand and watched Sherlock and John’s backs as they focused on their tasks.

Though they had used only three plates and no forks, somehow Sherlock’s sink had been filled with a large number of dishes, cups, mugs, and other utensils. It wasn't until Mary had already opened the bottle of wine, that she noticed there was not a clean glass in the flat. So John ended up doing all the washing, deciding that it needed to be done anyway and only grumbled once or twice about how for a man like Sherlock who barely had any sort of appetite, there were a lot of dishes in the sink.

It was quiet inside the flat; the only sounds coming from the kitchen as the water from the facet ran, the chink of a plate as it touched another, and the occasional soft splash of water as another dish was added into the sudsy water. In no time at all--as was their way--John and Sherlock had fallen into a rhythm. John would wash something, deposit it into the dish rack, and turn his attention to the next item. While Sherlock stood beside him, taking a dish or cup or utensil from the rack, before drying it with a tea towel, and then putting it away.

Occasionally while John would be putting an item in the rack and Sherlock would be taking another item out, their fingers would meet in passing. Mary noted that it was Sherlock who orchestrated the meetings; his fingers brushing against John’s each time he noticed John making a move to set something in the rack. The touching didn’t end there. When Sherlock would have to move around to the opposite side of the kitchen to put something away, he would lightly graze John’s shoulder blades to alert him of his presence. And sometimes if something belonged in the cabinets high above John’s head, Sherlock would stretch his arms over John’s shoulders under the pretense of putting something away without disturbing John, thus invading his friend’s personal space as the doctor tried ducking unsuccessfully to avoid the collision.

Mary smiled at Sherlock’s clever use of the close confines of the kitchen as an excuse to touch John. Sherlock's staged touches were perfect: they were innocent and so very Sherlock-like that even Mary had trouble realising what he was doing a few times, and they weren’t often enough that would make John suspicious. They were all so perfectly timed that she had to applaud the man. The whole thing reminded Mary of when she had begun her own mission to seduce Sherlock. Looking back on it, it all felt so long ago; like years instead of months. She chuckled quietly to herself before turning her attention to a magazine she'd plucked from the table.

They continued on in this fashion for a good twenty minutes more. It was all terribly domestic.

 

* * *

 

“What’s that on the wall?” John asked, nodding his head at the papers that were mounted on the wall opposite them above the couch. “I saw that when I got in.”

Both Sherlock and Mary turned to stare at the papers related to Project John that the project's namesake had indicated.

Mary aborted the sudden panic that had suddenly appeared in her stomach. Luckily--or rather, due to great foresight--Sherlock hadn’t labeled any of the graphs that were tacked up on the wall. The papers were also arranged in a system only known to Sherlock, and any notes he’d written up looked more like quickly jotted down ideas and were in a handwriting that was so illegible, not even a man who’d lived with him for years would be able to decipher it.

“Is it for a case?” ventured John, standing as close to the wall to look at the papers as he could without falling face-first onto the couch.

“Just a project I’m working on,” Sherlock said with nonchalance and an impassive shrug.

“A project?” John echoed, turning back to look at his friend over his shoulder. Mary stole a glance over at Sherlock from the corner of her eyes, feigning interest.

“Codename Iohannes,” replied Sherlock mysteriously without missing a beat, his eyes looking seriously back at John.

A jolt of shock hit her so strong, Mary felt like she’d been electrocuted. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming "Iohannes? _Iohannes????_ What are you  _thinking?!"_  at Sherlock. _That_ conversation would have to wait for another time; preferably a time where John was out of the room. For now, she just stood there, pleasantly smiling while trying not to panic at her coconspirator's sudden idiocy.

John tilted his head inquiringly and pinched his lips before turning around to look at the wall again. “Huh.”

Mary whipped her head around to fix an almighty glare at the idiot beside her. He didn’t acknowledge it. What a surprise. “Well are we ready to start?” he asked instead. Mary scowled.

“In a mo,” John said, stepping away from the wall. “I need the lav.” He smiled at them before heading down the hall and stepping through the door on the left.

Mary waited until she heard the lock on the door bolt before rounding on Sherlock and smacking him on the arm. _“Iohannes?”_ She whispered, trying to convey her outrage as quietly as she could without John hearing. “ _Iohannes???_ Why don't you just tell him the whole bloody plan while you're at it! _What were you thinking??? Why_ would you tell him the name of the project, much less give him the name in _Latin?!”_

“John doesn’t know Latin,” Sherlock said smugly, turning to meet her eyes. “Hasn’t the slightest idea what it means.”

Mary scowled at him in disbelief. “There _is_ such a thing as the internet, idiot,” she glared, crossing her arms. "Surely _you_ of all people would be all-too-aware of that."

“He won’t think of it until later,” he whispered beside her, smirking like a cat.

Mary scoffed indignantly. Deciding not to waste any more energy on Sherlock's plunder and opting instead to put it to better use, Mary began to move John’s chair. Sherlock stood hovering behind her while she pushed the chair back so that it faced into the room and the back was nearly against the bookcase. She decided that now would be a good time for a change of subject.

“Now remember,” Mary gritted out as she applied the same treatment to the detective’s chair, pushing it back so that it stood beside the fireplace. “It’s important we dance together first so that John will see how comfortable we are with each other. Then you will start teaching him while I sit here.” She smacked the low pea-green chair beside the fireplace in emphasis. “And I encourage you to be as much hands-on while instructing him as possible,” she continued, giving him a pointed look.

Sherlock nodded in understanding, his eyes sharp like a fencing foil. “I thought I’d teach him the box motions to start,” he replied. “Then throw in some movements, and gradually we’ll work from there.”

Mary nodded in approvement. “Good. That sounds good.”

They both stood together in silence for a few minutes, waiting.

A thought suddenly occurred to Mary and she frowned. “Was that a hint?” she asked, turning back to watch his face for a reaction. Sherlock stared down at his shoes and said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

“I’ve been leaving hints all along,” he said quietly, his pale eyes continuing to stare down at his shoes. “He just never observed them.”

Mary closed her eyes as the full weight of his words fell around her. Again her heart clenched painfully for him. What that must be like for him. To have his feelings displayed all around the man he loves, and to never have him notice--to never have him even realise--

She couldn’t even _begin_ to imagine how that must feel.

She reached out a hand and laid it on his shoulder in support. “He will.” She vowed giving his arm a firm squeeze. And that was all that needed to be said.

Then all too soon the sound of the toilet flushing could be heard, and was then followed by the unmistakable sound of the facet running in the bathroom.

“Right,” Mary exhaled, her heart pounding in a combination of excitement, anticipation and nervousness. She took her hand away and straightened her shirt with both hands. “Here we go.”


	4. The Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both knew there was no going back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last the madness has ended, and I'm on break! Now I can get back to these three idiots! Thank you all for being so patient with me, here's the next bit!

**The Waltz**

 

“Right,” John said, stepping back into the sitting room, smiling warmly as he rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get started.”

Mary stepped away from Sherlock's side, going toward the kitchen where she'd set the wine and poured them all a glass. She handed one to John as he sat down in his chair, and held a glass out to Sherlock without looking over at him. When she realised that he wasn't making a move for her outstretched hand, she frowned and turned to look at him. He didn't even notice her. He was watching John blankly, the nerves she'd seen earlier stopping him.

She set the glass down on the table behind him with a loud clunk that made his brain come back online. He shook his head, as if to clear out the cobwebs. “Yes of course,” he said, clearing his throat. He turned his back on John, and made for the table Mary stood beside for the laptop he'd set there earlier. It didn't escape her notice that as he fiddled with the machine, his hands shook of their own volition. She stood closer beside him, as though she were helping him with the contraption, and pressed her hand over his to still the tremors, grounding him. Very slowly the tension in his shoulders eased and he took a steadying breath. When Mary was sure he was calm, she patted his hand twice and turned to go back into the kitchen to refill her wine.

After a minute or two, the soft lilt of a violin could be heard drifting out of the speakers of the laptop and into the air of the sitting room, floating above Mary’s head. The sounds of the crackling fire added with the gentle, soothing voice of the instrument made Mary feel relaxed--like she was lazily drifting away on a cloud instead of striding back into the sitting room.

“I’ll compose my own piece, but for now we'll use this to practice,” Sherlock explained, his deep baritone zapping Mary out of the spell she’d been under. Mary blinked a few times to disperse the fog she’d been in, and her eyes drew to Sherlock. He was still standing by the computer, uncertainly, with his hands fidgeting again as he shifted from one foot to the other. Mary felt a pang of sympathy for the poor boy.

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously and expelled a breath. “Now, about the waltz,” he began sharply, stepping gracefully away from the computer and into the center of the room, dropping the nervous energy he’d had a moment ago like it was a heavy cloak onto the hardwood floor.

“The waltz is a dance of protectiveness. It is a steady dance--a _dependable_ dance. A dance meant to reassure both parties that no harm is going to come to either one while the other is around.” Sherlock explained, looking like a professor lecturing to his students. Mary smiled to herself as she took a sip of the wine as another idea for an afternoon activity flashed into her head. She promptly filed it away with the other afternoon activities she'd had stored up since this project began.

Sherlock drew Mary out of her reverie by holding his hand out towards her, palm turned upwards and his long fingers curled enticingly. She accepted it without hesitation, placing her wine onto the table beside his as she stepped into his space the same moment he stepped into hers. He guided his arms around her, placing his hands in the appropriate spots for dancing, and she mirrored him: resting her right hand over his left shoulder, and her other hand in his extended one. They both stood ram-rod straight as their eyes met, his bright and intense on hers. She was vibrating with excitement; the only thing grounding her was the hand Sherlock had placed on the small of her back and the other that held hers. She gave him a small smirk, his lips quirked in answer and his eyes glittered.

They both knew there was no going back now.

At the same moment, they moved together. Sherlock stepped forwards, and Mary stepped back. Sherlock led and Mary matched his steps exactly. They flowed together as one unit; stepping together forwards, backwards and side-to-side, in a box rotation. In a way, the dance reminded Mary of their relationship. From the very beginning of their acquaintance, they’d been on point with each other about everything. She could follow his thoughts and he hers without any difficulty or second guessing. They could read each other like a page in a book, and that had only solidified and intensified as they spent more time together--the shopping for her wedding dress was the perfect case in point. Mary smiled warmly at the memory. That was one of the best days she had had, and everything that had happened on that day had made it no less than perfect. And their dancing felt like an extension of that in the aforementioned sense that they knew what to expect with the other and there weren’t any lingering doubts or questions--only certainty.

The pressure on her back from Sherlock’s hand felt familiar, solid and, as the detective had described, dependable. Sherlock pulled her in a little closer, making her heart stutter with the movement, and only caused to broaden her smile. The change of her and Sherlock's proximity and of how John would feel about it did not escape her notice. With each turn around the room, Mary would steal little glimpses of her fiancé from the corner of her eyes. John’s posture was stiff. He was tracking them both with his darkened eyes, accompanied with a stern look on his face. He sniffed loudly to show his displeasure, making his nose twitch. As Mary and Sherlock continued to dance closely, John shifted in his chair and began taking large gulps of the wine in his glass. Mary couldn’t help but smile warmly at him whenever her eyes met his; he would only give her a smirk that held no mirth. Mary couldn’t help but feel giddy at his jealousy.

Mary made a few mistakes along the way. She’d “accidentally” step on Sherlock’s toes and apologise--but instead of frowning and reprimanding, Sherlock would only chuckle softly and correct her. It was a slow start, but eventually they got John to relax by making jokes of the situation, earning them a bark of laughter from him. John slowly eased and settled; even making one or two jokes of his own that caused all three of them to erupt into fits of giggles. Though he’d lost that tension of jealousy he’d had, and the smiles he greeted her with were much more friendly, his eyes never once stopped watching them. Mary noted that whenever they’d do a turn, his eyes were rapt on Sherlock, paying particular attention to his bum. But Mary couldn’t blame him: the detective _did_ have a nice arse.

“All right,” she said at last, stopping when they'd reached the center of the room, Sherlock’s arms still around her. Sherlock dropped his arms at her pronouncement and turned back to the laptop to start the music from the beginning.

She turned to John, smiling and pointed at him. “Now it’s _your_ turn.”

All the color drained out of his face, leaving him pale and gray. “Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. “I--”

“Oh come on Watson,” she smiled, grabbing his hands and pulling him to his feet so that he stood in front of her. He looked so panicked as he stared slightly down at her, that it was positively adorable. Her smile brightened and she leaned forwards and pecked him on the lips. “Dance with the man!" She said, side-stepping out of the way, leaving him facing Sherlock with no obstacles between them. "I’m paying good money for these lessons, you know!”

When John made no move toward Sherlock, Mary rolled her eyes. She reached out both hands until they were pressed against his back, and lightly shoved him closer in Sherlock’s direction. John stumbled for a moment, nearly falling literally into Sherlock’s arms before he found his footing, straightened and walked the rest of the way towards his friend.

“Ha ha,” he said unamused, turning back to glare at Mary half-heartedly. She smirked wickedly in reply and sat down in Sherlock’s chair by the fire to watch the pair.

“Now,” Sherlock said, staring down at John from his great height. He laid both hands on John’s shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze before turning him round so that his back was on his fiancée. “Show me what you’ve observed.”

John blinked in surprise before he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well,” he said, lifting his arms into the air uncertainly. “First you went like this. Then this...” his voice trailed off as he tried to show Sherlock what he’d seen.

It was all wrong, John looked positively ridiculous as he tried to mimic Sherlock’s graceful movements. He had his arms held out too high as he looked down at his feet, his back curved a little too far forwards with the effort, and his brow furrowed in concentration as he muttered to himself. Sherlock, for his part, stood ram-rod straight, his hands clutched behind his back, and eyes filled with great affection for the doctor as they traced his movements. He looked on with the goofiest smile on his face. His eyes met Mary’s over John’s bowed head, his smirk matching her own as they watched John try to dance. Though Mary would never admit it to him, her smile was caused more by the fact that in that moment, Sherlock looked the happiest she’d ever seen him. He broke eye contact first, his eyes drawn back to John like a bug to a lightbulb.

John lifted his head to look at Sherlock for his approval, and Sherlock’s smile dropped instantaneously from his face and was swiftly replaced with a frown of disapproval before John even saw the twitch of his lips. He stood straight as an arrow and very much looked like a general reprimanding a soldier.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock scolded, huffing in exasperation as he turned away and stopped the music. “You’re doing it all _wrong_ , John.”

“Yeah so I gather from your expression,” John muttered sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest as he frowned up at Sherlock. “So what’d I do wrong, Obi-Wan?”

“A better question would be what _didn’t_ you do wrong,” Sherlock deadpanned, ignoring the gibe. John scowled at him, waiting. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation. “In the first place, your hands--John--your hands!” He gesticulated to demonstrate his point.

John frowned down at his own hands and flexed them in confusion. “My hands? What about them?”

“You’re not holding them right!” Sherlock cried. John only gave Sherlock a look that made the detective huff again in response. “Look,” he said, stepping close into his personal space, and yanked John’s hands in his, making the doctor jump a little in surprise at the contact. Mary sat up straighter in her chair, all of her attention rapt on the dancers.

“You’ve got to hold your partner _properly_ ,” he continued. “Your right hand should be on your partner’s left shoulder--” he slapped it on the appropriate spot, and raised the doctor’s arm a little to accommodate the height difference “--while your partner’s hand will be placed on your waist like so.” He placed his own hand on John’s waist, his long hand gliding along the curvature of John’s stocky abdomen until it settled in the center of his back. The gesture made a slight twitch run through John's spine that Mary could see plain as day from her spot on the chair.

“And what about my other hand?” John asked, his left hand limp at his side.

“I was _getting_ to that,” Sherlock growled. “Raise your left hand,” he commanded. John responded readily, lifting his left hand, palm up. Sherlock huffed again. “No, no, tilt your hand _slightly_ inward.” John did so, his palm facing Sherlock. “Now your partner’s would go up like this...” Sherlock lifted his own hand until it rose alongside his partner’s, then he placed his hand in John’s, grasping his as his own long nimble fingers wrapped over the webbing between John’s thumb and forefinger. “And we’ll stand just _so_.”

Sherlock squared his shoulders, raising his pointed chin into the air. John stared up at him, in incredulous disbelief. Sherlock’s heavy lidded eyes met his.

“Stand up soldier,” Sherlock barked. John snapped at attention, his spine straightening automatically at the command without any effort from John. Mary snorted.

“Not funny,” John muttered, the tips of his ears going pink in embarrassment.

“Well--” Sherlock said, trailing off, scrunching his face in mock thought.

“Shut it,” John cut in, the flush spreading to his cheeks.

“Right. Now we step on a count of _three_ ,” Sherlock said slowly, as though he were talking to a child. John nodded in understanding nonetheless, ignoring the tone. “One. Two. Three--”

Sherlock took a step forwards, but then so did John. They both crashed hard into each other; John stepping sharply with his heel on Sherlock’s toes, and his face colliding with Sherlock’s chest, knocking all that superior bravado out of the detective like a wind in a ship's sails as they both grunted painfully in unison. Mary’s hands flew up to cover her mouth.

“Ow!” John exclaimed, covering his nose with both hands while Sherlock hopped up and down on one foot away from his partner.

“Why did you _move?”_ Sherlock asked as he settled his foot gingerly back on the ground.

“Because _you_ moved!” John exclaimed, his voice muffled between his fingers.

“ _I’m_ leading!” Sherlock shouted, limping back towards John. “You’re supposed to be following _me!”_

“What? So that makes me the _woman_?” John cried, dropping his hands and fixing a dark glare on the detective.

“I thought that would be the best place to start. Considering there _are_ certain _height_ requirements that you meet,” Sherlock retorted, glaring back.

“Oi! What does that have--”

Mary snorted loudly between her fingertips, interrupting the argument. The detective and the blogger looked over at her.  She took a deep, steadying breath before lowering her hands slowly from her face, schooling her features. They raised their eyebrows at her in question. That was all it took for Mary to explode with laughter. She was laughing so hard, that her sides ached, her stomach hurt, and tears were streaming down her face. She lifted her head back up to her companions, who were both watching her with matching looks of incredulous affection on their faces. Their shared expression made something pleasantly warm flare in her chest before it curled and settled down for a nap. Gradually they started to join in too; slowly at first, with small chuckles, then more with gasping giggles and eventually with all out snickering.

Once the laughter subsided, Sherlock began again. “I’m leading,” he said once he and John had gotten back into position.

“Right,” John said, nodding before clearing his throat again.

“On three. One. Two. _Three_.”

It went off without a hitch. Sherlock slowly began to take John through the steps, guiding his partner through it in a three-step count aloud in his deep, rough voice. John would occasionally look down at his feet, to make sure he was following correctly--but Sherlock would quickly reprimand him.

“Look _up_ at _me,”_ he growled, releasing John’s hand before snatching his partner's chin in his fingers and gripping it between his thumb and forefinger so that it was turned upwards at Sherlock. John’s eyes met his in surprise. They had stopped in the center of the room, their profiles facing Mary so that she could see clearly what was happening.

“The waltz is a protective dance,” Sherlock explained again, keeping his hand gripped on John’s face. “Meaning my life is in your hands and yours is in mine. You need to assure your partner that you trust them completely and that they can trust you. In order to do that, you have to _look me in the eye_ and _tell me.”_

John blinked in confusion, dropping his hands to his sides. “Tell you?” he echoed, furrowing his brow at him. "You want me to _tell_ you?"

“Yes,” Sherlock growled impatiently, rolling his eyes. “Tell me. Tell me everything is going to be all right and make me _believe it.”_

John’s eyes blinked and lowered to the ground. Sherlock removed the hand from his chin and stared down at him, waiting.

John cleared his throat and for a long while, the only sounds in the flat came from the crackling logs in the crate, and the spitting of the glowing fire. Mary didn't feel right being there. She felt like an intruder sitting there in the chair, watching the two men she loved most engaged in an extremely intimate moment. She felt uncomfortable being there while this was happening, but at the same time filled with anticipation over what the moment would bring next. Finally John took a deep, steadying breath. He looked back up into his friend’s face with a burning ferocity. Sherlock met his with the same intensity.

“Sherlock,” John grated, his voice an octave lower as he stared up at the detective. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in response. “Everything’s going to be all right,” the ex-army doctor said slowly, his dark blue eyes lit up with the fierceness he exhibited, and from the orange patterns of the flickering flames of the fire. “I am going to protect you. And nothing, and no one, is going to hurt you.”

The flames continued to crackle beside Mary. John continued looking up into his partner's eyes. Sherlock stared intently into his face; his eyes flickering over his friend's face, studying every crease and outline. Whatever he saw there made Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly. Finally he blinked and looked away, clearing his throat.

“That’ll do it,” he said quietly. The corner of John’s lips quirked in a smirk. Mary smiled, pleased that they allowed her to be there to share that moment with them--even if they were oblivious to the fact that they'd done so.

“Well,” Sherlock said, finally meeting John's eyes again. “Shall we dance?” He asked, holding up his hand again. John snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, why not,” John replied, placing his hand in Sherlock's. “Git.”

Sherlock smiled. His hand on John's tightened before loosening. "From the top, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter before--  
> Well, before things happen.


	5. Something More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because whatever came next could either be the greatest thing to ever happen to the three of them, or could be the worst thing imaginable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John isn't as slow as they thought.

**Something More**

 

It only took four and a half minutes of watching Sherlock and John continue their dance lesson for Mary to reach the inevitable conclusion that they were not going to get any further in their lessons, not tonight anyway. Because in the next half hour, Mary and Sherlock were going to finally bring John into their little circle.

Watching them from her seat by the fire, Mary clenched and unclenched her hands, and tried like hell not to worry at her lip. What happened next would be absolutely crucial; how Sherlock and her approached the situation would determine the entire outcome of their relationship, laying down the very foundation, and the last thing she wanted was for John to feel as if they’d trapped him in a corner and feel cheated. Because there was always a chance that John wouldn’t go along with it, and that was fucking terrifying--but then that was true no matter what time or place she and Sherlock decide to tell him about their divine plan.

Her eyes flicked over to Project John, with its many diagrams, and pie charts, and flow charts, and what-the-hell-kind-of-chart-is-this charts. In all their discussions, and in all their graphs, and in all their imagined scenarios, Sherlock and Mary had agreed on one thing over the course of their planning: that when it came to John Watson, actions spoke much louder than words. She knew deep down in her gut that they would get nowhere in their plans with John unless they propositioned him outright, and that was the thing that frightened her most, which was why she was savouring this moment of watching the two loves of her life dance around the sitting room together, looking bloody delicious while dancing close, with big goofy smiles on their faces as they playfully bantered.

Because whatever came next could either be the greatest thing to ever happen to the three of them, or could be the worst thing imaginable.

* * *

“You’ve come to a decision then?” Sherlock asked when they had a moment alone.

“Yes,” Mary answered, not bothering to ask how he knew, because Sherlock always knows something sooner or later.

His eyes, golden from the glowing fire examined her face like a magnifying glass, flicking this way and that as they studied her features. “You want to tell him tonight,” he said, more of a statement than anything else.

“Yes.”

Sherlock stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back, silent as he studied the mantle with scrutiny. The fire crackled and spat, filling the silence between them.

“Do you object?” She finally asked, tilting her head to look up at him.

“Oddly enough, no.” His eyes flicked towards her and he gave a small shrug. “Just as well--we couldn’t ask for a better setting. After all, this is where _we_ began,” he said giving her a sly smirk.

Mary smiled in answer. “Yes, we’ve come ’round full circle now.” He gave a rumble of a chuckle.

“Do you regret any of it?” he asked after a brief lapse in silence.

Mary shook her head. “Not a moment of it.” She met his eyes again. “You?”

“No,” he said, giving her a small smile. His admission sent a trail of warmth from Mary’s cheeks all the way down to her toes.

“This will be all on you then,” she said. “Have you got a plan?” She turned in her seat to face him fully.

“Eight so far,” he said in a business-like tone as he straightened again and turned back toward the room.

“Any plans that _don’t_ involve drugging John?” Mary asked, quirking an eyebrow. Sherlock was silent.

“Four so far,” he amended. Mary snorted and shook her head in disbelief.

“I _was_ hoping for something a _bit_ more romantic,” she said.

“What do you suggest then?” he asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

“Well,” she said, rising to her feet. “You’ll just have to improvise now won’t you.” She winked at him cheekily.

He snorted in derision. “I’m not very romantic,” he said, feigning humility.

“Yes you are,” she answered immediately, not giving him an inch.

He smirked audaciously. “I know,” he practically purred. She rolled her eyes fondly.

“I ought to smack you,” she teased. “That’ll teach you some manners.”

“Yet you won’t,” he stated, staring down at her with carnal eyes.

“Oh no?” She asked, raising an eyebrow as if to dare her and stepped closer into his space.

“No,” he whispered, giving a minuscule shake of his head as he continued to stare at her.

“And why not?”

“Because you love me,” he said without any preamble. It was such a change from the first time they’d had this conversation, where Sherlock couldn’t believe any of what she’d said to him at all, to this moment where he accepted it all as fact that it absolutely took Mary’s breath away and made her heart stutter in her chest with the realisation of just how far they’d come.

“Yes I do,” she murmured, reaching up and brushing her fingertips along his angular jawline. His eyes positively sparkled.

Mary was so caught up in stroking Sherlock’s jaw, that she didn’t even hear the flush of the toilet, or even the door to the loo opening. She didn’t even notice John watching them until he asked, “What’s going on?”

Mary immediately jerked her hand away from Sherlock’s face as though she’d been burnt from the contact and turned away from him. Sherlock twirled around to face John who stood in the kitchen entryway.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, meeting his gaze.

John narrowed his eyes, evaluating them as though he could see the thoughts that ran around rampant inside their skulls. Mary’s heart hammered in her chest as she thought of a hundred different ways this scenario could play out and trying to decide which outcome would be more preferable.

“Something’s up,” John said finally as he stepped into the room. “You’ve both got your scheming faces on.”

“Scheming? Nobody’s scheming,” Mary replied with some panic, as she tried--and failed--to lower her heart-rate.

John snorted. “I know you both pretty well by now, Mary. I know when you’ve both got something on.” He turned his attention to the laptop on the table, ignoring his companions for the moment. Mary and Sherlock briefly locked eyes on each other, both of them sharing a look of panic.

“Now,” John said. The non-schemers abruptly turned back to stare at him before he turned again to face them. “About the man’s positions...”

* * *

John had certainly come a long way from his earlier stumbling when they first began dancing. It was quite a transformation; John looked just as debonair as his tutor. He was able to follow Sherlock’s every step with ease, his arms only slightly loose and level with his shoulders, one strong hand on Sherlock’s thin waist, the other clasped in the detective’s, and his eyes forward--never once looking down at his feet as he led Sherlock all over the room.

Sherlock smiled approvingly as they danced, nodding along to the music and keeping count in hushed tones. “ _One_ , two, three... _one_ , two, three,” Mary heard him murmur in passing.

Sherlock’s eyes slanted over to meet Mary’s quickly over John’s shoulder and she nodded her approval. However way he wanted to do this, she would leave it up to his judgement. She _did_ trust him after all--he wasn’t a _complete_ arse when it came to romance. Not much anyway.

The music ended with Sherlock and John at the starting position, where they stood for a moment after the music stopped.

“Well,” John said after a moment of silence, a smug smile on his face as he lowered his arms. “How was that, professor?”

Sherlock nodded approvingly. “Good, John. Very good.”

John’s smile grew bigger.

“All except for the most important thing of all that you’ve completely disregarded.”

John blinked at him, Sherlock’s disapproval wiping the grin from his face. “What?” he asked in disbelief. “What did I do now? I followed _everything_ you taught me--”

 _“Except_ the most important thing,” Sherlock cut in pointedly.

John rolled his eyes and expelled a long-suffering sigh. “Go on then,” he surrendered. “What did I miss?”

“When one is holding their partner, it is customary to grasp them _firmly,”_ Sherlock explained as he took up John’s left hand in his right again, and planted his left hand on John’s waist, above his hip. Then he took two steps forward, his gaze focused intently on John’s face as he stepped into his partner’s space, a slight slink to his shoulders giving him the very personification of a cat. “And _closely.”_

Mary knew from personal experience that Sherlock’s magnified stare had the incredible ability to suck the air out of a room, and it was because of this eery power of his that the air in the room went absolutely still. Neither dancer drew breath as John stood stock-still, mesmerised by his friend while Sherlock stood before John, evaluating him and the possibility of whether or not John would allow him to take whatever liberties he had planned. As for Mary, she was not about to risk breaking whatever hold Sherlock had over her fiancé by doing something stupid like _breathing,_ so she sat, clutching her wineglass tightly in both hands and held her breathe as she watched.

“The waltz is also meant to be a slow seduction in disguise,” Sherlock purred, eyes never straying from John’s face. Mary shivered. God it was _so_ unfair how that man could make his voice like gravel at a drop of a hat.

“If done correctly,” he continued, “the dancers can evoke new sensations within each other.” His eyes flicked briefly down to John’s lips before meeting his partner’s eyes again. “Enticing,” he spoke barely above a whisper as he pulled John closer, chest to chest now, “a manner of different emotions.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock’s head ducked down and his lips met John’s, an action that drew out a muffled gasp from the startled doctor. It took all of Mary’s willpower not to throw her glass in celebration as she bit her lips to keep from letting a big grin take over her face. Finally, yes! Yes! Finally, _finally--_

Suddenly John put both hands on Sherlock’s chest and roughly shoved him away, enough so that Sherlock was nearly thrown backwards onto the sofa behind him. Though startled, Sherlock quickly recovered his footing, setting his left foot down firmly behind him so that he wouldn’t topple over onto the coffee table. He stood dumbly blinking down at John in surprise while Mary just watched with a gaping mouth at the scene unfolding in front of her.

“All right, what’s going on?” John asked angrily, whipping around to face Mary, stepping far away from the paralyzed detective. “You two have been acting strangely for _weeks_ now,” John’s voice rose in irritation, “doing God-knows- _what_ behind my back and making me feel like a tit. So just tell me: what the _hell_ is going on?”

It looked as though Sherlock wasn’t going to make any sort of movement, should he draw the man’s infamous wrath back on him, so it was all down to her. Mary honestly tried to make her mouth work, she really did, but all it seemed capable of doing was just to open and close without any words tumbling out.

“Well?!” John looked between the two questioningly. When no one came up with a ready response, he huffed. “Okay. Nobody wants to talk? _Fine_.” He walked past Sherlock and grabbed his coat from the hook behind the door.

Mary shot up from her chair. “John, wait!” she blurted. His dark stormy eyes turned towards her, and Mary thought he might just leave, but he didn’t. He only stood still and waited. Mary could only huff out a breath in a feeble effort to stall. “I think perhaps you’d better sit down.”

John stared at her for a long time before he came to a decision. He took a deep breath, set his coat back on the hook, and sat down on the sofa. Mary’s action spurred Sherlock to move again: he stepped over to John’s armchair and pulled it closer to the sofa before he sat down. Mary calmly sat far enough away from John on the sofa to give him the distance he’d need without necessarily isolating him. She thought it best that if he needed to bolt, he shouldn’t feel as though he were being tied down by her proximity. She met John’s eyes. They stared searchingly at her, dark and confused and a flame of anger that had the potential to flare back up at any moment.

“Mary, what’s going on?” John asked, brow drawn taut.

“John,” she said almost hesitantly, but didn’t get the chance to say any more as he interrupted her.

“Why did you kiss me?” John asked irritably as he looked back over at Sherlock when Mary wasn’t forthcoming with a ready explanation.

The detective gave a long suffering sigh. “John--”

 _“Why_ have you two been so chummy lately?” John interrogated, his voice rising. “And _why_ do you have all these graphs?!” He yelled as he banged the wall behind him with his fist. Mary flinched microscopically at the demonstration.

John turned his sharp gaze back to Sherlock, eyes dangerously dark. “Why is your project codenamed ‘John’?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, the surprise clear on his face. “How did you know that was what it was called?” he asked.

“How do you _think_ I know? I googled it,” John replied in annoyance. “ ‘Iohannes’ is the Latin form for ‘John’.”

Mary groaned and raised her head to the ceiling in agony. “I _told_ you he would look it up, you idiot,” she said to Sherlock, looking back over at him.

“Yes but I didn’t think he’d do it so _soon,”_ Sherlock complained.

“Wait a minute you _knew_ about this?!” asked John incredulously, looking back at Mary.

“Of course I did! It was my idea!” Mary cried in irritation.

John stared at her wide-eyed. “Your id _\--your_ idea?” he asked thunderstruck.

“Yes!” Mary responded.

“Well not entirely,” Sherlock drawled.

“I was the one who _started_ the idea,” Mary amended. “The planning, and the--no, actually it was _all_ my idea. Sherlock just made pretty diagrams, provided some input, and was used as a sounding-board.”

Sherlock frowned unhappily. “Those graphs were _imperative_ to the--”

“Shut it Sherlock,” Mary cut in, silencing him. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Somebody explain something!” John cried, drawing both their attentions away from each other. “Somebody _please_ explain to me why the _hell_ Sherlock kissed me, and why he was basically trying to _seduce_ me with that dance! And what the _fuck_ were you trying to do?!” He added as he turned his focus back onto his flatmate.

“Oh for _God’s_ sake, John!” Sherlock yelled, his eyes burned fiercely as he met his flatmate’s glare. “Use your brain! It _can’t_ be so small that you can’t figure it out for yourself!”

“You _always_ insult me when you’re upset and trying to deflect!” John yelled back, standing abruptly. Sherlock mirrored his action. Mary sat still, watching their back and forth.

“Yes I do!” Sherlock admitted, not lowering his voice as he stepped closer towards John.

“So you’re upset?”

“Yes!”

“Why are you upset?!”

“Why do you _think?!”_

“I honestly have _no_ idea!” John shouted, throwing his hands up towards the ceiling in frustrated exasperation. “Half the time I don’t know _what_ goes on in that stupid head of yours because either I’m too dumb or too slow to catch up with that massive, powerful brain of yours--or you’re treating me to some fucking exercise in deduction, and you won’t tell me anything for your own selfish amusement, or--”

“It’s because I’m in _love_ with you, you idiot!” Sherlock thundered.

All that anger zapped out of John like air out of a balloon, leaving him staring dumbstruck at Sherlock with wide eyes and whatever words he would have said next caught in his throat. “You--” was all John could manage as he blinked up at his best friend.

“Yes!” Sherlock exclaimed, as though John had finally gotten something right. He stared down at John before lowering his gaze to the floor. His voice softened as he added, “For a long time now.”

No one spoke. John only stared at him, and Sherlock stared hopelessly down at the floor, waiting for the ax to drop. Mary could do nothing except watch and pray to God that John didn’t fuck this up by leaving or saying anything stupid or rash.

“Sherlock,” John said at last, drawing his name out slowly, hopefully in an effort to gather his next words carefully. “I’m flattered. Really, I am,” Mary’s heart dropped, knowing that what would come next would not be good. “But I’m not gay.”

Mary closed her eyes and squeezed them tightly shut. So much for not saying anything stupid or rash.

Sherlock gave a frustrated growl and grabbed his curls, pulling at them so hard that Mary winced in empathy for him. He curled in on himself as he yelled angrily.

“Fucking hell!” he exclaimed before looking back up at John with wild eyes, his body still curled inwards. “ _What_ does that matter? What does _any_ of it matter?!”

“What does--” John sputtered in disbelief. “You _can’t_ be serious!”

“What does it matter what I’ve got between my legs?” Sherlock demanded. “What does it _matter_ that I’m a man and not a woman? What does it have _anything_ to do with what I’ve just told you?!

"What is _with_ the human race and this constant obsession with labeling ourselves and obliterating everything else that doesn’t fit?” Sherlock continued, straightening out abruptly and running his hands roughly through his hair as he paced a trench while he ignored John. “ _Why_ is there this constant _need_ to conform ourselves to strictly one binary and exist as purely _one thing_ and erase all other possibilities? _Why_ is it so important that we _limit_ ourselves-- _deny_ ourselves the experiences we could have if we just reached out and grasped them with both hands instead of sitting on them and fidgeting?!”

_“Sherlock--”_

“I don’t know how to tell you this, _John_ ,” Sherlock said coldly, his eyes positively frosty as he turned back to glare at his friend. “But it _is_ possible to be attracted to someone of the same gender romantically, and not feel any inclination to sleep with them.”

“I’m well aware of that, yes, _thank you_ ,” John gritted out angrily.

“Then why is it such a _problem?_ What does it _matter_ that I was born with a penis instead of a vagina? Why should it have to do with me being absolutely, horridly and _frustratingly_ in love with you?!” Sherlock demanded.

“Sherlock, it has _everything_ to do with you being in love with me!” John cried.

 _“Why?”_ Sherlock asked in confused vexation.

“Because I’m in love with you too _that’s_ why!” John exclaimed.

Sherlock blinked back in surprise as though he’d been slapped. The look on his face would be comical if it hadn’t been that it came up during such a serious conversation.

“You’re...” he asked, his next words evaporating.

“Yes of _course_ I am!” John yelled. “I’d be _blind_ not to! With your cheekbones, and your stupid coat, and your brilliance and your infuriating need to show off!”

It was like all the air had been sucked out of the room by a giant vacuum, leaving behind three flabbergasted people and all of them struggling to breathe.

“It was a matter of time really,” John muttered after a lapse in silence.

“You never said,” Sherlock murmured quietly.

“Yeah well,” John looked down at his feet and shuffled in discomfort. “I didn’t exactly get the _chance_ to...” His sentence trailed off.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped in realisation. He shut his eyes tightly as what John meant caught up with him. “John I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah well,” John met his eyes and gave him a tight humorless smile. “So am I.”

“If only I’d--” the detective began.

“Yeah,” the doctor finished.

They stood staring at each other, a chasm of unsaid words between them, but neither having the guts to say them. They weren’t ready to take that plunge, it seemed.

“Why are you sorry?”

John turned around to face Mary. “What?” he asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked again. “You _can_ like both you know.”

“I know--believe me, I _know_. I’ve known for quite a _while,”_ John responded mirthlessly. “It was just easier to claim otherwise.”

“Ah,” Mary replied. Well that was far from what she had initially thought when she began this endeavour.

“So what’s the problem?” Sherlock asked, drawing his attention again.

John gave a flat-out tired sigh and hung his head. “You _can’t_ be serious,” he began before he turned back to address his friend. “Sherlock, it seems to have escaped your notice that I am _getting married_. To someone _else.”_

“Oh she doesn’t care,” Sherlock said with an eyeroll, waving a dismissive hand at Mary as though the mere thought of her being offended were ridiculous.

“Doesn’t care?” John asked, looking terribly confused.

“No, in fact she’d probably want to watch,” Sherlock assured with a glint in his eye. “That is, if you don’t object to the idea of us having sex. We don’t have to, of course, if you don’t want to. Though admittedly, I _would_ like to very much, but if you’re _uncomfortable--”_

“Uncomfortable?!” John practically sputtered before he shook his head. “Hang on, one thing at a time. How do _you_ know that Mary doesn’t care about what we would do?” asked John very slowly, in what was clearly an effort to keep his head on.

“Internet history,” Sherlock responded readily. “And she told me.”

“Told--” John whipped his head back around to Mary. She remained seated in her spot on the sofa, looking (she hoped) very self-possessed. On the whole, she was very non-perturbed at the recent admissions, considering she’d suspected the shared feelings all along. At her fiancé’s expression though, she only gave him a smile.

John continued to stare at her, and it was clear by his expression that the gears were turning in his head. When his eyes focused on her again, it was obvious that he’d nearly gotten all the pieces of this messed up little jigsaw puzzle together.

“You knew,” was all he said.

“Yes,” Mary replied. John took a few steps closer before he sat down heavily on the coffee table in front of her.

“How long have you known?”

“Since the very beginning.”

 _“How?”_ he asked.

Mary shrugged. “You just had to look at you both to know,” she said. “In that sense, it was a bit obvious.”

“Not obvious to me,” John replied.

“Dear God,” Sherlock huffed from behind him, as though this was a painful thing to experience. “The evidence was _right_ in front of you.”

“He doesn’t see everything like you do, Sherlock, and it often isn’t obvious to the person involved,” Mary replied with a smile. She turned her eyes back on John. “Besides I know it isn’t easy,” she added.

“What isn’t?” John asked, expelling a sigh and dragging a hand through his hair.

“Being in love with someone you didn’t think reciprocated your feelings,” Mary said flat-out.

“And you’re not bothered by it?” asked John, studying her intently. “That I’m in love with him?”

“No, of course not,” Mary replied, maintaining eye contact with her fiancé. “I’m not threatened by it, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why?”

“Because you love me,” She replied. Mary’s eyes met Sherlock’s over his shoulder. “And he loves me too.”

A hush fell over the flat.

“Wait what?” John looked between the two of them. “What do you mean?” he asked, turning around again to face her.

“We’re not asking you to choose, John,” Mary explained slowly and deliberately, making sure the words were perfectly clear to understand. “I’m not giving you an ultimatum to choose either of us, and neither is he. The fact is that Sherlock and I are in love with each other.”

John stared blankly at her. “Huh?”

“Have I ever told you about any of my old boyfriends?” Mary asked suddenly.

John frowned and looked utterly bewildered by the shift in topic. “Once or twice, but what does that have to do with--”

“It has absolutely _everything_ to do with what I’m about to tell you,” Mary continued, serious. “And in order for you to understand, I first need to give you and Sherlock some sort of context.”

John blinked at her, before he cleared his throat uncertainly and said, “Okay.”

Mary took a deep breath. This was going to be perhaps the most difficult moment of her life, but it would also be the defining moment for the three of them that could be the start of something.

“All my life, I would become attracted to two men at once,” she explained, getting to the grit of what she wanted to say right away. “While I was dating one man, I would meet another, and become just as attracted to him as I did to the first. I never wanted it to feel like I was going behind anyone’s back and seeing another person without them knowing, so I brought them both to meet each other and suggested that we all date each other.

“It never worked. They were either so abhor to the idea, that they broke up with me that day--or so delighted by it because they knew the perfect girl to bring into the equation. That was when I would drop them. I know how you feel about labeling ourselves, Sherlock, but the fact is that I’ve never been attracted to a woman and didn’t want to hurt her feelings if she were included by rejecting her. So for a long time, nothing worked.

“Until one day I met John,” She stared meaningfully at him. Her chest swelling as her heart grew bigger with the memory of the day they met, though at the time it was just a normal Tuesday. “And as we dated and grew to love each other, I knew that this is what people were looking for. I could actually see myself remaining with one person and that would be more than enough for me.

“And then Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead.” She flicked her eyes to Sherlock, who was just as absorbed by the story as John was that at some point during her story-telling, he’d sat down on the coffee table beside him. “And he was clever, and funny and for all the hopelessly rubbish ways he was trying to apologise to you that night, I could tell you were so glad to see him underneath all the layers of rage. That night, John, when I said I liked him, I meant it. Then when you two stopped the bomb from blowing up parliament and came home giggling like school boys, I understood why it hadn’t worked with the other men in my life before. It was because they never cared about each other. There was no reason for them to get involved with each other because I was the only common factor in their lives--why should two men care about each other when they hadn’t even known each other previously, regardless of the fact that they were dating someone in common? It just didn’t make sense for them and that’s why they never tried.

“But I _knew_ it would be different with you two because you both knew and cared deeply enough for each other before I even came into your lives that the possibility of something more was there. It just had to be drawn out--”

“Teatime-Tuesdays,” John said immediately.

Mary nodded in agreement. “Yes.”

 _“That_ was why you brought us together, so you could see how we’d interact with you,” John continued, understanding beginning to dawn on him.

“And I knew that you were attracted to women already, John, but I didn’t know how Sherlock would feel about me, so I had to find out to be sure,” Mary continued. “So I began to touch him. Not obvious at first and just innocent enough to escape his and your notice, but I began to build it up so that he’d eventually acclimatise to it. He’d always suspected something was going on, though, and when I took him dress-shopping--”

“You invited _my_ best man to help you shop for _your_ wedding dress?” John asked, suddenly offended at the very idea.

“Focus, darling. On the day I took him dress-shopping, it was with all the intention of seeing how far he liked to be touched and if he would find me attractive. That was when he told me that the game was up and that I ought to explain myself to him.”

“And did you?” John asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Mary sighed and let her eyes close. “Yes.” She brought her gaze back up to his. His blue eyes always reminded her of the storm-clouds that gathered over the sea in Cornwall where she grew up: always so dark and full of promise for difficult things to come. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told him. I want you, and I want him too.”

John blinked at her in surprise. “Too?” He echoed after a moment.

“Because I love you both and I want to be a part of every facet of your lives,” she explained.

“You can’t be serious,” John whispered, staring.

“Completely,” she replied. “That is if you’re willing to share.”

“Share?” John’s brow furrowed.

“Well why should you get all the fun?” she asked, her eyebrow quirked upwards in suggestion.

“Hang on,” John began to ask, his eyes casting downwards and shifting rapidly in thought, going back over the words that she’d just said. “All the _fun_? Do you mean in...bed? How would you know that Sherlock would be fun?”

Here it was. The moment of truth. Mary took a deep breath, but John beat her to it.

“Have you two _slept_ together?” John asked, as he stared incredulously at her.

“Yes,” Mary said point-blank.

His eyes grew wide, as big as dinner-plates. But it wasn’t the size of his eyes that caught Mary’s attention: it was the look in his eyes, the look of utter gut-wrenching heartache, as though everything you’ve ever known has been shattered in front of you, and the ground had opened up underneath you and swallowed you whole.

It was in that moment that, for the first time in Mary’s life, she regretted everything she did in her life that led her up to that point.

“Oh my god,” John said, standing up on his feet and walking away from them.

Mary jumped up after him, leaving Sherlock alone on the coffee table. “I admitted that I loved him too, and told him I wanted it all from him. But if he couldn’t do sex, if he absolutely _couldn’t--”_

“Oh my _god_ ,” John gasped, clenching his eyes shut as he curled inwards on himself, resting his hands on his knees, as though he was going to be sick.

“--If he couldn’t, then that was fine. But he said he wanted to _try_ , so we experimented gradually to see if he would be able to--”

“Oh my _god!”_ John all but cried, straightening up again and circling the room, with Mary trailing after him.

“And he can! John, he _can!”_ Mary cried.

“This is like some horrible nightmare,” John muttered as he ran a shaky hand through his hair.

“What’s the problem?” Mary asked desperately. “I love you, and he loves you, and you love both of us, and we love each other. And now we can all be as demonstrative about it as we like--”

“There is so much wrong with this, Mary, I don’t even know where to begin!” John interrupted.

Mary stood still, willing herself to keep calm. “Well let’s start with the one most troubling you now.”

“How long have you been fucking him?” John asked, whirling on her, his eyes filled with rage. “Since when has _that_ been a part of the schedule? Weeks, months, days? Tell me, what was the _actual_ timeframe here, Mary, just so I can understand how far your infidelity goes.”

His words cut into her like daggers, and for a moment the pain of it made it difficult for her to breathe let alone speak.

“Since the beginning of May,” Sherlock said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

John whirled around to face him. “Oh so a _week_  ago?” John asked, his face contorting in rage. Sherlock stood up to face him. “And how many _times_ have you fucked? Just so I can get a clear grasp of it.”

“John--” Mary started.

“About five times,” Sherlock said seriously.

“Sherlock!” Mary cried, flabbergasted.

 _“Five?”_ asked John with a raised brow, and in a mockingly scandalised tone. _“Really?_ Why so little? Does that include oral? Mary gives excellent head you know.”

_“John!”_

“I know,” Sherlock replied.

_“Sherlock!”_

John flushed pink from his neck all the way up to his hairline, his eyes hard as he stared at Sherlock and his face like stone. “Oh really?”

“Would both of you _please_ listen to me?!” Mary asked in despair.

“No,” John said slowly, turning around to face Mary, pointing a finger at her. “You don’t get to speak. You haven’t got that right, not after what you’ve done to me.”

“Is insinuating that she's a whore making you feel better, John?” Sherlock asked, his eyes sharp.

“And _you!_  You’re no better!” John turned back towards Sherlock. “Going around my back and _fucking_ my wife!” He bellowed.

“She’s not your wife yet John!” Sherlock yelled.

“I’m not your wife!” Mary shouted in unison.

“Oh and I suppose that’s supposed to make it all _better_ now, is it?!” John roared.

The air was crackling with fury, and the fire seemed to emphasis that point. The room was silent for a long time and Mary was glad that Mrs. Hudson was selectively deaf enough to decide not to intrude tonight of all nights.

“ _How_ could you do this?” John asked desperately. “How could you _both_ do this?”

“I was trying to help,” Mary admitted quietly.

“Help?” John asked with a bitter laugh. “Help how?”

“Help make things easier.”

John stood blankly staring at her for a few minutes. Though he was only an inch or two taller than Mary, the way he stared at her made her feel like she was no bigger than an ant under his trainers. He crossed the room quietly, his fury silent but radiating off of him in waves. He took up his coat from the hook as he opened the door.

“Congratulations dear,” he said, turning back to face them, his face harder than anything she’d ever seen. “You have.”

He slipped out and the door slammed behind him.

The room felt cold despite the roaring fire in the hearth. Mary’s heart leapt to her throat. She wanted to cry out, to beg for him to come back, but the death-like grip around her lungs made it difficult. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she felt all the warmth draining from her body.

Oh god what had she done? Her mind raced like an engine caught on fire. What could she do? How could she fix this? Then her eyes zeroed in on Sherlock and she knew what had to happen next.

“Sherlock go after him,” Her voice managed.

He raised both eyebrows at her. “ _Me?_  What am I meant to do?”

“He won’t listen to me, it has to be you. Go.” She said, begging him to understand without the requirement of a more detailed explanation.

Sherlock stared at her, his clear eyes confused and trying to read her.

“Please,” she whispered as a tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek.

Sherlock blinked, before nodding in understanding. He walked purposefully back to his bedroom, it felt like years since she’d last been there instead of only mere hours. He came back a moment later, pulling his long dark coat on as he wrenched open the door and raced noisily down the stairs after John.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaannnnnnnnd scene!
> 
> Originally John and Sherlock's confessional scene was going to go verrrrrrryyyy differently, but each time I tried writing it I was never satisfied; it just felt so WRONG. Then it occurred to me that in the scene, John didn't feel like John at all; just some caricature of him (and a poorly made one at that). So I made John and Sherlock shout at each other. Because if it's one thing we know, it's that Sherlock and John are good at expressing themselves through big, loud arguments.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 11.24.14: Please don't freak out! You are not going crazy, you are not hallucinating: the chapter count on this one installment has indeed gone from 6 to 5. Originally I was going to have this chaptered part end in that cliffhanger of Sherlock leaving to chase after John anyway, and things have gone shit bananas crazy in my life right now, so I've decided to go back to the original plan to end it there. The next installment will be a separate part, going back to how the series was before with longish chapters and will be up hopefully soon in our future. Thank you for understanding and good day!


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